Newt Heisley, with the POW/MIA flag he designed. (Copyright Don Jones Photography)
*Heisley planned to add color to the black-and-white image, but those ideas were dropped
Article by Marc Leepson.
You see it everywhere—the stark, black-and-white POW/MIA flag—flying in front of VA hospitals, post offices and other federal, state and local government buildings, businesses and homes. It flaps on motorcycles, cars and pickup trucks. The flag has become an icon of American culture, a representation of the nation’s concern for military service personnel missing and unaccounted for in overseas wars.
From the Revolution to the Korean War, thousands of U.S. soldiers, Marines, airmen and sailors have been taken prisoner or gone missing. But it took the Vietnam War—and a sense of abandonment felt by wives and family members of Americans held captive—to bring forth what has evolved into the nation’s POW/MIA symbol.
The tingling of Jingle Bells heard on the streets,
Hurried, stressed, shopping,
Goose, turkey, deer, lamb or fish on the table,
That bring indigestion,
Overeating that deadens the guilty pull of our consciences,
Blinding us to the fact that over half the world is starving.
We get up from our tables,
With our plates still full of what we did not eat.
The celebration that has been taken over by our arrogance
Has been willfully dissected down to a small dot over the i to meet our emotional needs for belonging.
Our demands are for autonomy that separates us from the Creator who made us, demanding recognition as self-made men and women.
The virgin birth quietly disdained.
The God-Man ridiculed for such an unpopular entrance.
Unbelievable, we say.
His birth abhorred.
The Savior downgraded.
It’s about humiliation,
Believing in the virgin birth of the God-Man who upset the world.
Time changed from Before Christ to Anno Domini
That dirty word that people seldom hear,
But when heard too often denied,
Opened the door to righteousness for all.
Though rejected by many, Love prevails.
Not in the gifts bought in department stores,
Not in the glamour of cosmetics, jewelry, or face-lifts,
Not in diamonds, silver, or gold,
Not in bonds, securities, puts, or calls,
Not in Christmas trees or cradles,
Not in boats, cars, planes, or trains,
That transport us away from the diffusion of our congregated confusion.
Because God took it upon himself to offer up the One sacrifice that would save us all.
Now Heaven’s gates are opened to all who believe.
For God so loved the World that He gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. John 3:16, The New International Version 1984 (NIV), Zondervan
Merry Christmas everyone,
Joyeux Noël à tous
Fröhliche Weihnachten an alle,
Buon Natale a tutti
It is the sixth day of December, and I am catching up after a month of NaNo (National Novel Writing Month) and three lovely days attending an online writers’ conference and book expo by RRBC from the first of December until the third of December. I now look forward to getting back into my routine.
Thanks to everyone who cheered me on during the month of November. I wrote 63,036 words on the third book of my series. Revision will start sometime next year.
It feels good to be back. I have not posted anything from myself on my Walk On Blog in ages, and it is about time that I started posting again.Once a month, I will feature women we have forgotten about as I have done in the past on this blog and also share some of my poetry.
Today, a revised version of a poem I released on Esther Newton’s Blog for one of her Weekly Writing Challenges.
Politics by Pat Garcia
My heart weeps.
Years filled with murder.
Old, young, dying,
My heart weeps.
Freedom, the way to live,
Suppression of others routine,
And my heart weeps.
The best way, my way,
The right way, only my way,
People seen as dogs, infidels,
Breathing air, their air,
And my heart weeps.
Down through the Ages,
Past and now present,
The spirit of confusion, hatred, and death arises.
Turning men into war mongers,
Nations into furnaces,
Like arrows diving pointedly into the soul,
Men, women, children die,
And my heart weeps.
Leaders encouraging each other,
As blood spills and soaks the ground,
And my heart weeps.
Dictator, ah what?
Do they understand?
People sent out to kill,
My heart weeps,
Listening has disappeared,
Only the cry of death can be heard,
As the politicians play the games called politics.
I’m calling you Wisdom,
Cause my heart weeps.
No one has ears to hear,
Eyes to see,
Blinded by their own greed, ambition.
They say my way is the best way,
And my heart weeps.
Shall I run,
Shall I stand,
Shall I proclaim how unique; how irreplaceable life really is?
Does no one see,
Does no one hear the wailing,
Of the child
Oh, my heart weeps.
Yes, they sit there,
Playing politics like a game of chess.
The women in the cabinets of this world,
Chic, but unwise,
Applauding their elite status yet knowing nothing,
History is repeating itself. The age of Humanism is slowly marching off the world stage, but what comes next? Precedent historical repetition says that sooner or later another nation will rise. After all, the human race has lived through the rise and fall of many great nations. History is repeating itself.
The situation among the cultures is precarious. The Iron Curtain is slowly rising out of its sleep and finding its home among nations that want to protect their economy and the pure ethnicity of their race. Cultural diversity is leaving the stage. History is repeating itself.
The rudimentary ordinances of nature are being disobeyed. What was once one plus one equals two is now one plus one equals whatever makes you feel good. History is repeating itself.
Over one million people are on the run. The number of people who have died so far on the ground, in airplanes, in the seas is heartbreaking. Men talked, yet children cry, children die, women cry, women die. History is repeating itself.
In every corner of the world, there is tumult. Philosophical antagonism demands closed borders. An antagonism based on supremacy, it has plummeted us even nearer to a world war. It enacts to dominate, to make all men and women think alike. This antagonism has no mercy, no understanding, and no love. History is repeating itself.
“What are you doing, Child?” The Prophet asked.
“Watching the New Year come in over the earth.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“No, it’s not nice Prophet. It’s sad.”
“Why, Child. What do you see?”
“In every corner, I see children starving, women crying, human life wasted. Prophet, don’t people ever read about the past?”
The woman was heavy laden with child, and her husband looked at her with concern. Of course, he had to go. The census was mandatory. As he regarded his wife, he knew the journey would not be easy.
What is a few hundred miles or kilometers today? Catch a train to Hamburg from Frankfurt, Germany, and you arrive in four and a half hours, a plane ride from Augusta to Atlanta, Georgia is fifty-five minutes. However, this man did not have these comforts. His Mercedes-Benz was a donkey.
He observed his wife as he pondered over the trip ahead. Leaving her behind was not a consideration; in her was the hope of the nations, the salvation of the human race, and a shiver went through him as he thought of what could happen ahead. Thieves and robbers on the route and a desert where the temperature dropped at night were between the two cities, and ninety miles on a donkey was not a one-day ride. He figured he might be able to travel 10 miles a day, but even that would be hard considering that she was heavily pregnant with child.
Today the significance of this event has been revised; the hardship erased. The importance of this Child’s birth has fallen into abnormality.
Soon, it is Christmas.
For me personally, it is the time when I reflect backward to that birth in Bethlehem with Thanksgiving in my heart.
His birth changed History;
His birth changed my life and gave me a vision with purpose;
The Son of God came to earth so that I could have the right to be accepted in the Beloved.
A Civil War founded upon religious beliefs and how people should live has spread itself to the European Continent. What happened in Paris, France, was a battle, and an act of war carried out by the Islamic State. That we refused to take the declaration of war seriously in 2014 has resulted in the mass, willful, killing of innocent people, which took place on Friday, the thirteenth of November.
Religion, which oppresses, is like a dictatorship suppressing the inalienable rights of each individual who lives under its umbrella. Unfortunately, these inalienable rights, known as life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are also echoed by these totalitarian societies, but they are interpreted differently, and the cultural upbringing displays a life we people in the West are not accustomed to––freedom and individual development find itself caught on the blind side of life.
Hopefully, revelation has broken through the thick skull of false reality we have let descend upon us, and our eyes have been opened to see that not everyone think as we think, act as we act, and desire to live as we live. If this were true, the Islamic State would not exist.
Unfortunately, this clarity is too late for those people who lost their lives in Paris, France on that dreadful evening.
Aunty Acid is at it again. I love her wisdom on dealing with the obstacles of life, especially when you’re thrown a curve ball. So whatever life throws at you today, duck so it hits someone else. You don’t have to stand there and take it. You don’t have to start your week out with negativity. So duck and keep walking.
I don’t know when it happen, but I remember reading the MONDAY FUNNIES, one morning and bursting out with laughter. I was hooked on the funnies. Laughter is not typical for me before eleven a.m. If you ask the people very close to me, they will tell you, Pat is usually unapproachable before eleven.
Honestly, as a writer, I find myself experiencing highs and lows. It’s a writer madness that takes hold and motivates me to write what I see as I write about the world I live in during the early morning hours.
Thus, Chris Graham’s, CHRIS THE STORY READING APE’S BLOG has become a necessity in my life. It touches the humor within me, and laughter comes bubbling out.
Recently, Andrew Joyce, an author, sent out a dare, a seventy-nine-words dare to writers and it has been running on Chris’s blog as the Seventy-Nine-Words Story Challenge. Each week, stories are chosen as the best submitted. This week, one of my stories from The Child and The Prophet (a W.I.P.) was among the ones chosen and to be very honest with you that makes me happy.
To read my story and the stories of the other participants, please go to the link below. It’s only 79 words, and drop a line on Chris’s blog and let him know you were there and me too, of course.